Work in Progress
by K Hanna Korossy
Summary: The Mentalists tag: They're back together, but it's not quite business as usual.


**Work in Progress**  
>K Hanna Korossy<p>

They were good. Really.

They'd both apologized, sorta. Once Sam could see past his pride and pique, he got why Dean had killed Amy, and even why he hadn't wanted to tell Sam. And Dean's chagrined admission that he didn't like lying to Sam, that his drinking and insomnia were because it bothered him so much to lie to Sam, had gone a good way toward letting him forgive his brother. Sam didn't regret his choice to return to the hunt with Dean.

That, however, didn't mean all the awkwardness was gone. That Sam didn't sometimes lapse into memories of Amy then and now, sweet and resigned. Or that Dean didn't cast him sideways glances like Sam was a grenade that could go off at any time. It made for little conversation and lots of loud music.

And maybe not the best decision-making.

"You sure about this?" Dean asked, loading shotgun shells by feel as he eyed Sam.

Sam tucked the demon blade just under his jacket and checked his own gun. "You really want to take two hours to go over the whole place together?"

Dean turned to face the sprawling high school, face twisting into a grimace. "Good point." He lifted a finger. "But here's another—have we ever, and I mean _ever_, not regretted splitting up on a job?"

Sam thought about it a few seconds, and ignored Dean's triumphant look when he snapped the shotgun barrel shut and dodged the question. "It's probably goblins, right? Not exactly big game hunting. They're usually not even lethal."

"No, but a broken leg, scratched corneas, and a scalded hand ain't exactly a walk in the park, either." That was what had caught their attention: not the seriousness of the injuries, but the incredible rate of bad luck at this one school.

Sam firmed his jaw and slammed the trunk. "That all that's bothering you?"

Dean tilted his head. "What else would there be?" he said, utterly unconvincingly.

Sam sighed. "Dude, I'm fine, all right? Yeah, sometimes I've got the whole schizo thing going on, but I can handle it."

"I never said you couldn't," Dean responded too quickly.

"Uh-huh. Well, then, nothing wrong with splitting up, right?" Sam gave him a pointed look.

Dean looked back, then nodded once. "Nothing at all."

It took Sam half a minute to pick the lock on the front doors. They clicked their flashlights on once they were inside so nobody who happened by at two in the morning would see them. Three hallways branched off from the exit: left, right, and straight ahead.

"I got right," Dean declared.

Sam knew it was because the boiler room entrance was off the right hallway and bad things usually liked basements, but he let Dean have that one. "I got left. Meet back here if we don't find anything in...twenty minutes?"

Dean checked his own watch. "Sounds good." He paused, giving Sam a serious look. "Call if you see anything, and I mean anything, okay?"

He wanted to chafe under his brother's orders and protectiveness, but Sam swallowed his pride at the clear worry on his brother's face. "Yeah. You, too."

"You'll be the first to know," Dean said with a grin. And then he was off down the hall to the right, crooning softly to the goblins to show themselves.

Sam shook his head, smiling now that his brother couldn't see, and set off the opposite way.

"_No more pencils, no more books, no more teachers' dirty looks."_

The sing-song echoed off the walls, and Sam's smile disappeared. He didn't look around to see if he could spot Lucifer; it wasn't like he didn't know that voice very well. Besides, the last thing he needed was a visual distraction to go with the audial one.

At the first classroom door, Sam peered in the window with his flashlight. English room, nothing unusual. He went on.

"_No more pencils, no more books, no more teachers' dirty looks." _

Reacting only fed the hallucinations, so Sam steadfastly ignored it. Another room across the hall: French. Again no sign of trouble, and the meter in his pocket remained silent. Sam crept on.

"_No more pencils, no more books, no more teachers' dirty looks! NO MORE PENCILS, NO MORE BOOKS, NO MORE TEACHERS' DIRTY LOOKS!"_

Grimacing, he peered into the third room. Science? Chemistry, from the look of the equipment. Quiet and still.

Sam was about to look away when something caught his eye. Frowning, he aimed his flashlight to the left.

The tower of microscopes would have been an impressive feat of engineering if it weren't in a gravity-defying configuration. No way any human had done that.

Sam tried the doorknob, found it locked, and bent to pick it. The crash from inside the room made him jerk and move that much faster.

The door open, Sam bounded inside, shotgun at the ready. His gaze ping-ponged around the room, searching for movement and small shadowed figures, returning again and again to the now-collapsed pile of microscopes. Nothing, even as the meter in his pocket gave a low whine.

"You want someone to play with?" he said loudly, still scanning the room. "I'm right here."

_"I'd love to, thanks for asking,"_ a cheerful voice said by his ear, and Sam couldn't help whipping around.

Lucifer grinned back at him. Then turned on the Bunsen burner next to Sam, catching his sleeve on fire.

He ground his teeth together, trying to ignore the burst of pain. It wasn't real, he knew that, but that didn't stop him from feeling like he was burning, or freezing, or drowning, choking, spilling his guts out: whatever his screwed-up mind conjured. Just meant it wouldn't kill him. No, Lucifer wanted to drive him crazy first.

"Sam! What the—?"

He spun the other way this time, to see Dean charge into the room. His brother's eyes widened, then Dean was lunging for him, beating at the flame on his arm. The one Dean shouldn't've...been able to...

Crap. Sam sucked in a breath as the wave of heat from his singed skin rolled through him. From the very real fire.

"Why didn't you—? Your arm was on fire, dude! Seriously, how did you miss that?" Dean was sputtering even as he ripped open Sam's smoldering shirt sleeve, made a face, then carefully pulled Sam's jacket off.

"I, uh. I didn't think it was real," Sam admitted, voice low with shame.

Dean gave him a look but didn't comment, focusing instead on wrapping the jacket around his reddened arm. "Are they here?" he asked. Without looking up, his eyes darted around the room.

"I didn't see any." Sam chewed on his lip as the pain grew, then leveled off to mere discomfort.

"We'll put some stuff on that at the motel," Dean said, then peered at him. "Sammy? Y'all right?"

No _I told you so, _and somehow that made the humiliation even worse. "Yeah," he mumbled. He couldn't exactly blame Dean for his doubt and fussing now. "You were right, okay?"

Dean's mouth twitched. "Told you, man," he smacked Sam's chest with the back of his hand, "we split up, bad things happen. I'm surprised one of us didn't get eaten after you took off on me in Ankeny."

He gratefully took the out Dean offered, mustering a weak smile. "Yeah, yeah. Lead on, MacDuff."

Dean gave him an odd look. "The dog in _The_ _Simpsons_?"

Sam looked back at him just as uncomprehendingly. "What?"

A door out in the hall slammed.

They refocused on the hunt, creeping out of the chem room. In unspoken agreement, they moved down the hallway side-by-side now, each clearing the rooms on their sides. Spanish room, Latin—how many languages did they need, anyway?—and around the corner, parallel now to the middle hallway. American history. World history. Sam met Dean's eyes after each, communicating easily with nods and shakes and tips of the head.

They reached the next corner, the hall turning again to the right to meet up with the middle one. All the doors on Dean's side now led to the big gym, which was also quiet and dark. Sam was silently relieved, not keen on the thought of dodging dozens of balls and hockey sticks, mats sliding out from under them. The kid with the broken leg had slipped on a rolling carpet of tennis balls.

A soft laugh echoed through the tiled hall. It was far more guttural than Lucifer's usual chuckle, but Sam checked his brother anyway, almost relieved to see Dean stiffen. Good, he'd heard it, too. They brought their respective weapons up higher and continued to advance. Band room. Art—

Wet paint dripped down the far wall, a face with a toothy grin drawn in crimson. A very toothy grin, with razor points.

"Dean," Sam whispered, all that was needed to yank his brother back to his side.

Dean peered into the room and cursed softly. The doorknob turned in his hand, and he glanced at Sam, silently counting down together.

They burst into the room, flashlights scanning wildly while guns remained steady.

A whoosh of air yanked Sam's attention to the left, to see a volley of paintbrushes coming at them like arrows. He lunged for Dean, dragged them both down behind the nearest desk.

"What the—?" Dean spluttered, shoving him away. "Get off me!"

"It was launching brushes, dude!" Sam shot back. Then hesitated. "You didn't see it?"

Dean pushed up, just peeking over the top of the desk, checking both ways before sinking back. His frown at Sam was more worried than annoyed. "Dude, there's nothing there."

Sam flushed, jerked his head once in comprehension. Damned if he reacted to a threat, damned if he didn't. "On three?" he said, determined to be Dean's partner even as his mind did its best to bail.

Dean was thankfully already focused back on the hunt. "One...two...," he muttered, and then they were both leaping up, aiming at the far doors that gaped ominously to reveal deep, dark-shadowed closets.

Something even darker scuttled within.

They charged, the time for stealth over.

There was an inhuman shriek and a scramble of movement. Dean fired at it, while Sam took out the lump of clay that was sailing toward them. It splattered apart, but Sam had no time for satisfaction, already re-aiming at the next projectile.

A shrill cry of pain greeted Dean's next volley. The small form of a goblin lunged out at Dean, and Sam whipped to the side to shoot it before it reached his brother.

Something very solid and heavy crashed into his head and shoulders.

He suddenly found himself sprawled on the floor. He stared dumbly at a burst bag of plaster mix, wondering why his arm ached and his forehead felt like it was splitting open.

There was a shift of movement at ground level, in the bottom corner of the closet. Several glowing eyes peered at him, multiplying dizzily with every shift of his head. Hunt—it was what they were hunting. Sam shoved upright, on defense, but his hands were empty.

"Dean!" he barked, wincing at his voice. "Nest, bottom right."

Dean dropped, the shotgun going off again close enough that Sam's already pounding head whited out. With a deep groan, Sam sagged to one side and emptied his stomach.

He could just hear Dean swearing before an arm snagged around his heaving middle and jerked him back. He slumped against the solid line of his brother's body, hands clenching around the gun that was shoved into them.

"Sam. You with me?"

He muttered something he hoped was an affirmative.

"Awesome. Point and shoot, okay? I'm calling targets."

Targets? His brain swam, but the drill was too deeply engrained to be shaken loose. It was the SOP when one of them couldn't see the enemy for whatever reason and had to rely on the other for guidance.

Story of their lives, his murky brain recognized.

"Two o'clock, Sam."

He aimed, fired, flinching at the recoil.

"Four."

Fired again. He saw something fly at him from nine o'clock, right at his injured arm. But Dean didn't call it, and the image vanished as quickly as it appeared. Hallucination then—great. Good to know his head wasn't too battered to keep up the barrage.

"Ten o'clock."

He fired at the same time Dean did. His brother was in constant motion, racking, firing, reloading as needed. Sam's gun would be empty soon—had he fired five or six times?-and he didn't wait for the empty click, dropping it to pull out his Taurus instead and took aim.

He wasn't sure how many times he fired, or when. Of if he even did at all. The next thing he knew, Dean was pushing his gun hand down, crouching in front of him with a face heavy with concern.

"Sammy?"

That name always made him feel five again, which sometimes was irritating and sometimes was reassuring. This time it made him wince in shame. Great partner he was, unable to tell the real threats from the ones his mind cooked up. No wonder Dean treated him like a kid.

"Sam? Hey."

"They dead?" he mumbled.

"Yeah. Eight down—it was a big nest. Gonna bag 'em now and burn 'em later."

He grunted.

"How's the head?"

"Hurts." He huffed a laugh. "Only duck for th'stuff that isn' there." He raised his arms a little and dropped them back uselessly, his mouth twisting, eyes not managing to meet Dean's. "Some crap partner, huh?"

"What? You kidding me? Hey." A hand lifted his chin. Dean's eyes were dark with emotion. "Dude, you did good, okay? And not just for screw-loose-you—for _you_-you. You watched my back, helped take the nest down. Okay, yeah, we gotta work on your self-preservation skills a little, but that's not exactly new. All right? You hearin' me?" His cheek was roughly patted. "You good? Or you wanna wallow a little more?"

"Shut up," he grumbled, swatting at Dean's hand. The poke had succeeded, however, no doubt as Dean had intended. Kid-glove treatment meant he really was, as Dean had so tactfully put it the other day, needing a check-up from the neck up, but insults meant Dean trusted him to handle things: hunts, brotherhood, daily living. And Sam needed that belief in him as badly as he needed to believe in himself.

"You just sit there a minute, hold the desk up." Dean's slap of his good shoulder sent up a cloud of white that had his brother grimacing. Dean brushed his hand against his jacket and moved off, muttering to himself as he began to clean up, "Figures you'd get yourself sidelined just when it came to the gross part." He shook out a garbage bag he'd gotten from who knows where, his disgusted exclamations as he filled it just audible.

Sam dropped his head back against the desk. Belatedly, he saw that plaster dust coated him completely in a layer of fine white powder. Great, he really was a mess, physically and mentally.

But he was there. Dean had always had infinite patience for whatever Sam was dealing with, as long as Sam dealt with it there, with him. A few weeks ago, after he found out about Amy, Sam had taken off again, too angry to stay and have things out with Dean. And he hadn't completely been unjustified in his anger or actions, but... It had sucked. He was having a hard enough time staying in touch with reality with Dean there to ground him; on his own, he'd gotten lost more than once.

He kinda thought maybe Dean did, too, when he was alone.

So even here, surrounded by gremlin gore, Hell streaming live through his brain and the car on lockdown and Leviathans watching every security camera: this was better. God help them, this was where they belonged.

Sam sat back, trying to keep his aching head still while he listened to Dean bitch as he worked, feeling surprisingly content.

**The End**


End file.
